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Reflections on Falluja and the Impermanence of Victory

By Teresa Fazio January 28, 2014 1:32 pmJanuary 28, 2014 1:32 pm

Before there was a battle for Falluja, we threw darts.

I chucked them with the enthusiasm of an eager second lieutenant in the spring of 2004. Our Marines in Camp Taqaddum’s Communications Company, the smartest electron-slingers on a logistics and air base 10 miles west of Falluja, kept radios, switches and routers humming quietly. The cork dartboard was mounted on plywood, where we aimed at scrawled “troubleshooting procedures” like “blame the distant end,” “turn off switchboard” or, my favorite: “prank call Systems Control.”

Then four Blackwater contractors were murdered and hung from a bridge. Shortly after, a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device hit a truck full of Marines on a nearby supply route. Our company commander did a walk-through of the Mortuary Affairs bunker during processing: marking wounds and tattoos, shading missing body parts.

The major returned to our company with a creased brow. “Couple things,” he said, his usual prelude to our evening formation. Then he told us the dartboard had to go. He gathered us closer and quietly said we could expect a spike in network traffic in the coming week. For the next day, there would be a cease-fire so Iraqi women, children and the elderly could escape Falluja. Then the infantry attacked. No time for games now; instead, we needed the troubleshooting procedures we had trained with.

We spliced cables and monitored satellite signals and changed the cryptography keys religiously, knitting our company together with common purpose. We were proud and arrogant. We assumed the grunts would light up the city and charge right through. We had backup generators ready, five-gallon jerrycans filled to the screw-cap with fuel. I felt lucky that aside from mortar attacks, “increased network traffic” was our biggest worry.

On the rumored invasion day, we stood atop the Systems Control hut at dusk. As I squinted, my sergeants swore they could see splashes of fire on the horizon. Marines will never get off a roof when something is blowing up.

A few days later, it was announced that the grunts would not stay in Falluja after all. After about 50 American service members — most of them Marines — died in the battle, this pulling back disappointed and enraged me. I thought we had committed to fight for an immediate victory, but instead we went back to slinging electrons and waiting for our base to be mortared. Falluja and Ramadi remained hot spots through our entire deployment, yielding heavy casualties. Fallen Marines were transported through Camp Taqaddum on their final journey. I was grateful that our company did not take any casualties, even when insurgents blew up our ammunition supply point the night before we flew home: Sept. 11, 2004.

Through it all, the dartboard never went back up.

Photo

The dartboard, which never went back up.Credit Teresa Fazio

On my last day before catching a flight back to the States, I met an old squadmate from the Basic School. We were so glad to see each other that his thumb left a bruise on my hand when we shook hello. It was his first day in Iraq. Three months later, in December 2004, he was wounded in Falluja in the second battle for the city. Another former classmate had led a platoon through intense fighting during the beginnings of that battle. They successfully took the government center, which insurgents had recently bombed. Americans won only by using overpowering force, cratering buildings and bulldozing debris to clear paths for infantry. Ninety-five Marines died. I did not learn of my friends’ roles until months afterward; our communication was sparse, and in those confusing days after I returned home, I could not even watch the news. But we finally controlled Falluja, and three years later, Americans scored enough points with tribal leaders to prompt the Sunni Awakening. The city calmed, and bulldozers were tools for construction, not invasion.

All of that progress seems to have been reversed in recent weeks, as Iraq’s affiliate of Al Qaeda grabbed control of much of Falluja. My old Marine colleagues have posted comments online about going back and blasting through again. I felt disappointment and disgust at the fall of the city, and the humbling feeling of being a very small cog in a very big war machine. Ten years ago, the first Marine invasion of Falluja was not forceful enough. But the second invasion, in which Marines overpowered the entire area, was apparently not a lasting solution, either. Was all of our “troubleshooting” for anything, other than keeping each other alive?

I am struck by the impermanence of victory, whether in parlor games or in war. Perhaps in Falluja, the Iraqi Army and tribal militias will eventually be able to repel Qaeda forces. If tribal leaders came together for the Sunni Awakening, they might yet form another solution, though it may take years.

And I have to believe in the value of service members’ buoying each other. Keeping a communications network steady through mortar attacks, sharing moments of recognition when crossing paths, feeling concern about colleagues dealing with gruesome deaths — these experiences bonded us. In a moving New Republic piece, my buddy whose platoon took the government center made the point that his preschool daughter and toddler son would not exist, were it not for the actions of his comrades during the second battle for Falluja. And through reunions, writing workshops and online communities, my fellow Marines and I remain dedicated to supporting each other, even as veterans. Our mission has changed: Thrive in the present, in civilian life, even if it includes news that is a slap in the face. For me, the community of veterans has been a blessing, despite my chagrin at Falluja’s recent fall.

In the end, I refuse to believe that my service in Iraq was for nothing. We were not only throwing darts at a dartboard — we also took our jobs seriously, and took care of each other. I choose to view the sheer fact of safe return as a victory in itself. From a distance of 10 years and 8,000 miles, the fate of Falluja is no longer up to us and our “troubleshooting procedures.” The only military lessons I can glean are ones of imperfection and impermanence. So I am shifting my aim to supporting fellow veterans, and to life after war, and not holding out hope for a bull’s-eye.

Teresa Fazio was a Marine Corps officer from 2002 to 2006, deploying once to Iraq. She has read her writing at the Kennedy Center and has been a panelist at the New York Public Library’s Veteran History Series: Women Warriors on C-SPAN. She lives and works in New York City, and is writing a memoir set during and after deployment.

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